


Hearts Sewn Together

by serapheim



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Death, Dueling, Epic Bromance, Fighting, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Happy Ending, Loss, M/M, Pain, Pre-Slash, The Inseparables - Freeform, Trust, if you want to read it that way - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serapheim/pseuds/serapheim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One illegal duel, one shot comrade and two grieving friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts Sewn Together

**Author's Note:**

> Epic bromance or pre-slash, can be read as either, depending on whichever way you are more inclined.

It took Athos some time to understand that they had walked right into a set-up. 

It had all started innocently enough. They had been approached by one of the red guards at a tavern who had offered them to join him and his companions in toasting to the Queen’s health. He had said, that their captain had given them a few bottles of Bordeaux wine in the celebration of future heir of France. 

Athos was usually the first one to be suspicious of anything that cardinal’s men did or said. Had the wine been bad, he would have been more wary, but it was excellent, so he, reluctant Porthos and suspicious Aramis joined the guards’ table.

It had not been the best decision. It took just a couple of drinks for the guards to start making jokes that bordered on insults. 

Athos ignored them, only because they were outnumbered, three to five, and getting into trouble right now, seeing, as they were quite literary on the cardinal’s enemies list, would have been unwise. 

He could feel Porthos beside him vibrating with a barely controlled anger, as one of the guards, by the name of Lacotte, made some poorly concealed joke about a prostitute of colour that he had seen at the Court of Miracles. 

“Quite cheap, she was, and quite eager,” laughed Lacotte. “She must not be getting a lot of clients, the wench. Surprising, she is roaming the streets freely at all, considering her colour.”

“I think we should leave,” hissed Aramis from the other side of him, and even though Athos was reluctant to do so, he knew that they would get in big trouble if they would start a duel with the red guards. Again.

Another crude joke and a bout of laughter made Porthos spring to his feet. Both Aramis and Athos looked at his friend in alarm.

Lacotte looked up at a fuming Porthos in fake surprise, “Oh, Monsieur Porthos! Leaving so soon? And I thought you would share a story or two about one of your mistresses? I heard you were quite favoured by the ladies. Even a foreign princess, no less! Wonder if those rumours are true.”

“They ain’t rumours,” growled Porthos. His hand flexed on the hilt of his sword.

“Indeed? And what country is that princess from, pray tell? Does that country exist or is it a product of your imagination like the rest of your adventures, monsieur pirate?”

Athos and Aramis were both on their feet, holding Porthos from charging the drunken idiot, who laughed at their reaction.

“I am challenging you, monsieur,” bit out Porthos, eyes flashing and moustache quivering, “to a duel.”

“Let’s talk about this outside,” said Athos, and Aramis added, “Porthos, please, ignore the imbecile and let’s leave.”

But it was useless trying to reason with Porthos when he was that wound up. The guards laughed, as Lacotte accepted the challenge, naming two of the present companions as his seconds. 

The six of them walked outside and were led into a secluded alley by the guardsmen. Athos felt uneasy, and by the looks of Aramis, he felt the same. Athos couldn’t tell what was sending off warning bells at the back of his head, except for the obvious fact that they were going to get engaged in an illegal duel.

They reached a deserted courtyard and the guardsman unsheathed his sword. Porthos did the same.

“To the first blood?” asked Lacotte, jokingly. “Wouldn’t want to make your face any more ugly.”

Porthos charged at him like a bull.

Aramis watched the duel with intense focus, while Athos was staring at other two guardsmen. He felt that something might go wrong. He expected it to go wrong every second, but it still took him by surprise, when the yard was suddenly filled by cardinal guards.

“Sheathe your swords!” hissed Aramis, but it was too late.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here,” said Jussac, stepping forward. He was the cardinal’s favourite, and acted as if he was in the command of the red guards, even though he was no higher in rank than the rest of them. “Isn’t it a duel that we see here?”

The three friends stood closer to each being surrounded by the guards two times their number. Porthos’ adversary stood grinning at them from amidst of other guards.

“Not at all,” said Aramis, smiling broadly, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “A mere training exercise.”

“An exercise?” smirked Jussac. “In a secluded place, involving swords and seconds?”

“Porthos was simply showing a few tricks to your companion over there,” replied Athos, desperately trying to figure out the best way out of this situation. Admitting to a duel would mean an immediate arrest. Denial would lead to a confrontation and they were seriously outnumbered.

“I think I know a couple of trick of my own,” said Jussac and gestured towards Porthos. “Arrest this monsieur for an illegal duel.”

Two guards approached Porthos, who didn’t look as if he was going to sheath his sword. 

“We don’t want any trouble,” said Athos, putting a calming hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “We will talk to the captain and it will be all sorted out.”

It was quite possible that Porthos would have listened to Athos, like he usually did, and would have let the guards take his sword, if Lacotte whom he had been duelling, hadn’t chosen that moment to say quite audibly, “And don’t forget to put him on a leash, my friends. I am sure it is something he is quite familiar with.”

With a roar, Porthos charged at the closer one of two guards. In seconds the mayhem broke loose. There was yelling and the sounds of clashing swords vibrated between the stone walls. 

Athos found himself facing Jussac and another guard, who was so inept, that the musketeer managed to stab him in one thrust, leaving him with only one adversary. Jussac was a very skilled swordsman, but Athos was even more skillful, so he was able to fight him and pay attention to his friends at the same time.

Aramis was pressed by two guards, but he seemed to be managing them both quite well, exchanging parries and occasional biting remarks. Porthos was fighting two adversaries as well, and as he made a vicious thrust with his sword, one of the guards’ rapier snapped at the hilt. Scared, the man dropped the remains of his sword and ran off.

“You are all arrested, and you will all perish in Bastille!” gloated Jussac. 

Athos didn’t reply, saving his breath. He lunged forward, but Jussac countered his thrust and almost scored a hit, as his rapier sliced through Athos’ sleeve, but not even scratching him.

They circled, parrying each other’s blows. There was a short yelp of pain from one of the Aramis’ adversaries, as he was wounded in the thigh. The sound distracted Jussac for a second, who couldn't see his companions, and in spite of his bold remarks was quite aware of how skilled the musketeers were. Athos used that moment to send Jussac’s sword flying from his hand. 

“Surrender, Jussac,” Athos’ sword was pointed at the guard’s throat, “And tell your men to stand back.”

Two guards were lightly wounded, Jussac was disarmed and both Aramis and Porthos were pressing their opponents. The unexpected, unfair fight seemed to be almost over.

But Jussac just grinned at Athos. Then his gaze shifted somewhere behind Athos’ shoulder. Athos turned to look and froze as he saw Lacotte, who had started it all, level a gun at Porthos.

“Hey, you mongrel,” yelled the guard. “Go to your ancestors!”

Athos once heard that in the moments of utmost danger, even if everything seemed to be happening very fast, one would always be able to predict what was going to happen.

As Lacotte pointed the gun and fired a single shot, Athos could see Porthos freeze on his spot, just a few feet away. Nobody could miss from that distance. Athos also saw Aramis glance frantically between the guard and Porthos.

He knew what was going to happen even before Aramis took a step forward, into the line of fire.

The bullet hit Aramis right in the middle of the chest. He fell like a stone to the ground.

“Aramis!” yelled Porthos, as he scrambled toward his fallen friend. He didn’t reach him though. He was stopped just a few steps away, as two guards seized him by the arms. He thrashed in their hold, but was finally brought down to his knees by the third guard, pressing a sword to his throat.

“No,” he said and then yelled, “No! I will kill you! I will kill you all!”

Jussac had retrieved his rapier and stood facing Athos. “It is the end. Surrender, musketeers!” He sneered at Athos, who instead of surrounding his sword, sheathed it.

They were not let even to check if Aramis was still alive, as the cardinal’s guards dragged them forcefully away from the scene. Athos felt as if he was shellshocked, or as if someone had fired from a musket right beside him, as there was a constant ringing in his ears that wouldn’t go away.

They broke free half the way to the guards’ headquarters, and ran towards the garrison. There was no honour in such escape, but Athos couldn’t care less about honour at that moment, when all he could hear in his head was Porthos’ anguished cry.

Rounding yet another corner of a narrow alley, Athos suddenly realized that Porthos was not following him anymore. He retraced his steps back to another street, where he found Porthos crouched down by the wall, his face hidden in the arms.

“Porthos?” asked Athos tentatively, coming to stand close to his friend. 

Slumped over, almost curled into a ball, which should have been impossible for such a big man, Porthos seemed twice less his size. He was almost like a child, hiding away from the reality. 

Athos kneeled beside Porthos and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Porthos raised his head, and Athos was not surprised to see his face wet with tears. 

“He is not dead, is he,” whispered Porthos. “It is just a wound, right?”

Athos felt himself at the loss of the words. He wished he knew the answer to the question. 

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

Porthos grabbed his lapels and shook him. “Tell me, he is not dead!” he pleaded.

“He was shot, Porthos,” Athos’ heart ached painfully as he said these words out loud. “We both saw that. He fell and he didn’t stand up. He must be dead.”

“No!” Porthos’ face convulsed with grief, and it was painful to watch. “He can’t be dead! He can’t be! He is Aramis, he is always the lucky one!”

Athos shook his head and pried Porthos’ fingers off his jacket. 

“We must go. We need to speak to Treville before the news reach him or the King.” He tugged at Porthos’ hands. “Let’s go. There will be time to grieve, but it is not now.”

They went straight to Treville’s office, but he was not in. They asked around, but nobody seemed to know where the captain was. 

Porthos sat at the table, his head in his hands, quite oblivious to everything around him. If one would have asked him, how he felt at that moment, he would have said that it felt as if the sun had disappeared and the whole world was now plunged into complete darkness.

Athos came to join Porthos, when he saw D’Artagnan at the entrance. Their younger friend spotted them immediately and walked briskly in their direction.

“Where have you been?” he asked, slightly annoyed. “Treville had been asking for you for hours.”

“Where is he?” demanded Athos.

D’Artagnan shrugged, “I think he was summoned to the palace. Why? What happened?” He frowned, sensing that something was amiss. “Where is Aramis?”

A shudder went through Porthos at the sound of Aramis’ name, but he didn’t utter a word. Athos looked at him briefly and then said flatly, “He is dead.” He couldn’t make himself, look into their young friend’s eyes.

“What?!” D’Artagnan gaped at them. Neither of his friends seemed to be joking though, and he grew pale. “What happened?” he asked, his voice trembling. “I don’t understand.”

“A duel,” Athos’ voice was quiet and grave, “with red guards. Aramis was shot.”

“Are you sure he is dead?”

“No,” muttered Porthos.

“What do you mean? You left him there?!” D’Artagnan shook with indignation. His words spurred an anger in Athos’ chest. He rounded at D’Artagnan and hissed into his face, “We didn’t have a choice!”

“They dragged us away,” said Porthos quietly. “Couldn’t do nothin’.” He was still sitting and staring at the table as if it held all the answers. He felt as if he was caught in a nightmare and unable to wake up. Only it was not a nightmare, but a reality.

“I don’t believe it,” D’Artagnan started pacing. “Where did it happen? He might still be alive. We must go and see!”

Athos stared at him. He didn’t want to let a hope stir in his chest at D’Artagnan’s words.

“He was struck square in his chest. I have seen those wounds. They are mortal,” he said.

“D’Artagnan is right. We must go and see,” Porthos stood up. “If he is still alive, then maybe he can be saved. If he is not.” He paused and looked at Athos with the eyes full of pain. “We should take care of his body.” 

“We must speak to Treville,” Athos felt torn, “If we don’t let him know what had happened, we will be immediately arrested by the guards. You know very well, Porthos, how the cardinal works. We will be accused of starting this duel.”

“I must know, Athos.” Porthos moved closer to his friend, almost whispering. “And I know you do too.”

There was nothing Athos could say to that, because Porthos was absolutely right. They walked to the place of the duel, trying to stay away from the main roads and keep their hats low to avoid being recognized. 

They were only partially surprised to see that the courtyard had been freed of the bodies and any signs of the duel. Except for, perhaps, several patches of blood on the ground.

Porthos stood over the place where Aramis had fallen and pointed, “There is blood in there. But we can’t be sure if it is not from the guard that Aramis had stabbed.” 

“But who removed the bodies?” D’Artagnan walked around trying to visualize the battle that had taken place their.

“Jussac,” Athos sighed, “I am sure that he didn't want to be associated with the duel, since we had escaped them. Explaining their version of events to the cardinal without evidence would be hardly possible.”

“Maybe he is still alive,” D’Artagnan said with his usual Gascony stubbornness. 

“Nobody can live with a hole in his chest!” yelled Athos, and a pigeon flew from a rooftop, scared by his voice.

D’Artagnan looked at him, his jaw set and his eyes hard. “I will not rest until I find some answers,” he said, forcefully. “I will ride to the palace and see if I can find the captain.”

He turned on his heels and strode away,

“I think we should go back to the garrison and wait for Treville there,” said Athos. Had it been someone else, he would have suggested going to a morgue, but he couldn’t bring himself even to think about it.

They walked back to the garrison, grim, silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

Porthos walked, his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. He stumbled once and Athos put a supporting hand on his elbow, that was immediately brushed off. 

Then Porthos stumbled again, and again. He walked as if he had drunk a bottle or two of a good port. Athos kept glancing at him, but since he couldn’t see his friend’s face and Porthos remained stubbornly silent, he didn’t say a thing.

Until Porthos stumbled again, over his own feet, it seemed, and would have fallen, had not Athos caught him by his shoulders. Porthos sagged at him, and Athos groaned a bit at the weight of his big friend.

“What is wrong, Porthos?” he asked, gripping Porthos’ shoulders and trying to keep them both upright.

“I can’t do it, Athos. I can’t. Aramis is dead,” mumbled Porthos, his face pressed into Athos’ shoulder. “How can I live now? How can I go on doing what we do, when he is gone?”

Alarmed by the words and the desperation that was plain in Porthos’ voice, Athos shook him slightly and then pushed at his shoulders to look into his face.

“Stop it, Porthos. We are musketeers. Our lives is the price that we pay for the safety of France.”

“I don’t care about France!” Porthos heaved. He stared at Athos with an expression of grief and confusion on his face. “How can you be so cold? It is Aramis! And he is gone! Why are you not grieving?”

His words hurt, even though Athos understood that Porthos didn’t truly mean them.

“Perhaps, because I would prefer to avenge him, rather than grieve,” he said quietly. “But, come, my friend. It is not the conversation to have in the middle of a Paris street.”

Treville was still not in his office, as was not D’Artagnan in the garrison. They could only hope that their young friend would be able to catch the captain at the palace. 

Seeing as nothing could be done at the moment, and neither of them were fit for any duty, Athos gave a couple of coins to a stable boy and asked him to let D’Artagnan know that they would be at Porthos’ lodgings. He had to practically drag Porthos, who seemed to have fallen in a silent stupor, to his own rooms.

Walking up the stairs to Porthos’ rooms, one arm around his friend’s shoulders, Athos fought for any remaining pieces of his resolve. His friend’s grief, so strong and almost palpable, was breaking down his own defences. He used to be quite adept at ignoring his own desires and hiding his emotions behind the mask of indifference.

He had always thought that his heart had been beyond repair, that Milady had managed to shatter it so profoundly, that nothing could help piece it back together. It had been six years ago - before he met Porthos, and later Aramis, and realized that those two were the reason not to put a bullet through his head.

Aramis was family, had been his family, his brother. 

Beside him Porthos stalled, grabbing the railing. Athos wondered if there was something wrong with him, indeed. He couldn’t let himself be overcome with emotions as Porthos. Maybe it was his naturally aloof character, or perhaps the fact that he still was their leader and had to remain strong.

They staggered together into Porthos’ rooms, holding each other up, as if drunk. 

And they both stopped short at the sight of a man that they both had believed to be dead.

Aramis was seated in one of the chairs, from which he rose with a slight wince at their appearance. His smile fell when he took in the ashen faces of his friends.

“What?” he asked, confused. “Porthos? Athos?”

Porthos was the first to move. He practically leaped to Aramis and crushed him in a tight embrace.

“God, Aramis! We thought you were dead!” he exclaimed, his voice trembling. 

“I can’t breathe, Porthos, please!” pleaded Aramis, trying unsuccessfully to push Porthos back. His friend didn’t release him immediately, although he lessened the hold. Then he simply fell to his knees, his arms circling Aramis’ torso, as he pressed his forehead to the man’s thigh.

“I thought you were gone,” whispered Porthos, his voice hoarse with emotion. “And I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t bear the thought. I thought I was dead too.”

Aramis looked helplessly at Athos, who was leaning in the doorway, also overcome with relief and slightly unsteady on his feet. Aramis fingers had moved to Porthos’ head on their own volition and tangled in to the dark curls. 

“You were shot,” said Athos, “We saw you get shot.”

“I was, but God saved me,” said Aramis. He pulled out a chain with the cross, the gift from the queen. It was charred and bent. “The ball hit the crucifix,” explained Aramis. He reverently pressed the cross to his lips. “I have a huge bruise, and perhaps a broken rib or too.” 

This was when Athos realized he couldn’t stand that far any longer and walked towards his friends. He put a tentative hand on Aramis’ chest, and as no protests came, moved his shirt aside to reveal a big black-purple bruise that had blossomed on his friend’s skin. Except for several shallow cuts and bruises, he was fine.

“I lost consciousness for a moment and when I came around, everyone was gone,” said Aramis softly. “So I went to the garrison and not finding you there, decided to wait here.” He looked down at Porthos, who was still clutching at him. 

“Please, Porthos, my friend,” he pleaded, feeling uneasy, “you should not be kneeling before anyone who is not a king, and more so not before me.”

Porthos shook his head, and Aramis gave Athos another helpless look.

“You don’t understand how much you mean to him or to me, do you,” sighed Athos. He grabbed a fistful of Aramis’ hair and shook him slightly, as if trying to shake some sense into him.

Aramis’ dark eyes were wide open. In spite of the lines left on his face by fatigue and pain, he still had a young look about him at that moment. Sometimes all that they had been through made Athos forget that Aramis was almost a decade younger than him. 

“Athos,” whispered Aramis. He didn’t try to get out of Athos’ hold, and Arthos wondered again at how much they all trusted each other. How close they all were knit together by friendship and blood.

Porthos rose to his feet, but he didn’t step back. He stayed where he was, in Aramis’ personal space. Aramis flickered his eyes to Porthos, whose face was an odd mix of anguish, relief and anger. 

“Never do it again,” growled Porthos. He grabbed Aramis by the lapels of his shirt and moved him closer, to press his forehead against his friend’s. “Ever,” he added.

Athos’ hand in his hair and Porthos’ face just an inch away from his, Aramis felt as if it was not three of them standing there, but one. They were one and the same; one soul and one mind in three bodies. Three hearts sewn together. Les trois inséparables.

“If you die, who would be sewing Porthos’ wounds?” murmured Athos. He was so close, that it was only natural for Aramis to wound an arm around his waist and bring him even closer, as he clutched at Porthos’ shoulder with his other hand.

“Yeah, Athos is shit with a needle. Must be the upbringing and all,” smirked Porthos, and Aramis felt laughter bubbling in his throat.

Waking up in a deserted yard with silent, bleeding bodies around him had reminded him too strongly of Savoy. He had been overcome with such a profound fear that his best friends had perished, that he had walked to the garrison in a daze. He understood that seeing him being shot from such a close range must have been hard for them too. 

But he also knew that he would do exactly the same, if needed. 

“I propose, we have a drink,” said Athos, stepping back and finally releasing Aramis’ hair. Immediately, the younger musketeer felt as if he was half complete, without Athos close by his side. A ridiculous thought, but at the same time a very true one.

“I have a bottle or two of madeira,” grinned Porthos and clapped one hand on Aramis shoulder.

“Good,” nodded Aramis, “I think I’ve had enough of Bordeaux wines for the time being.”

They all were so lucky to have each other, thought Athos, as he watched Aramis and Porthos bicker. Aramis was trying to one-handedly bandage his own ribs, and Porthos was getting in his way with curious, probing fingers. Until the bigger man lost all patience and simply took the stripes of linen to do it himself. Aramis was forced to stand still, with his arms wide open, shirtless, shivering, although still trying to give instructions.

There would be a day, thought Athos, when Aramis wouldn’t be that lucky, or Porthos would not be that fast and strong, or, perhaps, Athos himself would make a costly mistake. 

Nevertheless, that day was not today. And today they could laugh, joke, drink and praise God for the miracle of being alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Gottcha there, didn't I? :D  
> I will be honest. I love angst, but I also love happy endings. So there you go.  
> I write in the blend of TV series 'verse and canon 'verse. I used bits of the ideas for a duel from the novel and some bits from the series as well. Main idea of the Aramis being shot was taken from The Three Musketeers (1993) movie.


End file.
